I'm Not Now
by CptGoodGirl
Summary: Sherlock falls in the kitchen. Is it a symptom of something more serious?
1. The Fall

I'm not now.

Sherlock lay on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, his head thrumming as he ran diagnostics. Outer extremities were fine, slight ache in left shoulder and hip. He'd fallen that way, then. The only other obvious injury was his head. Or had that hurt before he fell? Sherlock couldn't remember, but he was sure of one thing; John couldn't find him like this. That would never do.

Sherlock Shivered. The blue silk dressing gown did little against the January chill of the flat. Around him, 221b lay still and quiet. As if waiting with baited breath to see what would happen next. Over the past few days it had silently observed Sherlock performing experiments, playing his violin and searching for John's gun. He was bored. John was due back from his medical conference at midday, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure of the time. He didn't care for not knowing. He raised a pale hand to his head and touched the spot above his right ear. He flinched and drew his hand away quickly, releasing a stream of imaginative curses. The fingers came away dry. He wasn't bleeding at least, which would make this easier. Staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock could see faded burn marks from past experiments. It was peaceful, lying here. His eyes fluttered closed and he felt himself start to drift. So sleepy. He could quite happily wait here for John. He would be home soon. The thought of John spread a warm feeling through Sherlock. The thought of John finding him like this, sent an icy chill. No. Sherlock would have to move. Dragging his eyes open, he heaved himself into a sitting position. The greens a greys of the kitchen swirled around him and he forced himself to breath slowly. Eventually, the kitchen calmed back to its original, solid state. Shuffling over slightly, so that his back was resting against the cupboards, Sherlock reviewed his plan. It was going to be difficult to stand up. Very difficult. Perhaps crawling would be better? No, even when alone in his flat and probably concussed, Sherlock Holmes was a proud man. He wasn't going to crawl around his own flat on his hands and knees just because he'd….

What had happened? Not that he would ever admit it, but he was unnerved by the fog that clouded everything before he'd woken on the floor. Sherlock steeled himself. With one great effort he was standing, albeit clutching the table and edge of the sink for dear life. Once the spinning had stopped, he took a cautious step towards the living room. He found that movement was fairly easy as long as he kept hold of something. The kitchen cabinets, the wall, John's chair, the wall again. After a very slow minute Sherlock had made it to the sofa. Never had it looked so inviting. Trying not to aggravate his sore left side, Sherlock lay down and faced the wall. Wrapping the dressing gown around his thin frame, he imagined he could feel the bruises forming at his hip and shoulder. When would John be home? Soon. That last thought comforted him as he drifted off into a welcome sleep.

…

As he slid his key into the front door of 221b Baker Street, John felt relief surge through him. It had been a long few days, stuck at a medical conference and away from his best friend. A proper cup of tea would go down really well about now. None of that tea-urn rubbish they always have at conferences. Once upstairs, John wasn't surprised to find the flat in darkness. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa. Either thinking or asleep. That would account for him not acknowledging John's return. Flipping the light switch in the kitchen John started to make some tea. Stepping towards the kettle, something crunched under his feet. Bending to examine it, it turned out to be a sliver of Sherlock's favourite mug. Now that he paid attention, there were bits of ceramic everywhere. Looked like Sherlock had dropped his mug and not bothered to clean it up. Typical. Digging the dustpan and brush out from under the sink, John swept up while the kettle boiled. As he deposited the shards in to bin, he stuck his head around the corner to check on Sherlock. Still curled in a tight ball on the sofa. Impressive for a man of his size. John decides to make him a cup. It'll probably be the only thing he's eaten or drunk for the past few days.

A mug in each hand, John made his way carefully into the living room. He deposited his mug on the table next to his armchair, and took the other over to Sherlock, where he left it on the coffee table.

"Tea, Sherlock."

John wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. Stepping around the coffee table and sitting on the edge of it, he placed a hand on the detective's shoulder and shook him gently. The movement caused then dressing gown to fall from his shoulders, revealing an angry purple bruise forming on Sherlock's white skin. John grimaced. It looked painful and it was definitely recent. Sherlock had obviously been through the wars. Reaching past the sleeping man's head, john switch on the reading lamp at the end of the sofa. In the light, it was obvious that Sherlock had had a rough week. He was much paler than usual, if that were possible, and John could see a small bruise poking from underneath the hairline of his left temple.

"Christ, Sherlock. What have you been doing?"

Again there was no response. A Bolt of worry shot through him. Sherlock wasn't a deep sleeper. Not that he slept often enough in John's opinion. Using the back of his hand, he made sure that Sherlock was breathing. He was, but it was shallow and uneven. A bit not good. Next John checked Sherlock's pulse. Slower than it had cause to be. The pale skin under his fingers was cool and smooth to the touch. John paused for a moment, thinking how good it felt. He quickly shook that thought away. He had to wake Sherlock.

Loathe to leave him for even a minute, John sprinted up the stair to his room, and pulled his leather medical bag from under the bed. Back downstairs, he placed the bag within easy reach and sat back down on the coffee table. Being careful to avoid the obvious bruise, he shook Sherlock again, a little harder this time.

"Sherlock, it's John! I'm home. Could you open your eyes for me please?"

Still no response. Right. Cold fear had settled in John's bones as he picked up Sherlock's hand. He pinched the skin on the back of his hand, hard. Sherlock groaned slightly, and his eyes flickered beneath his lids.

"Come on Sherlock! Can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes for me. Now!"

Gradually, as if it was a herculean feat, Sherlock opened his eyes. He was obviously unfocused and confused, and that scared John more than being unable to wake him.

"There you are! You scared me. What happened?"

"Fell." Sherlock groaned. As if the memory offended him. "Kitchen"

John reached into his bag and took out his pen light. Flicking it on, he moved so he was standing above Sherlock.

"I'm going to check your reflexes, ok? I think you hit your head, you're probably concussed. Why didn't you call me? When did this happen"

"S'morning… maybe las' night?" He slurred.

John felt sick at the thought of Sherlock lying injured all night. He flashed the light in Sherlock's eyes, one at a time and grimaced. His pupil were uneven and slow to respond. Next, he held up a finger in front of Sherlock's nose.

"Follow with your eyes, please."

Sherlock obviously tried his best, but his left eye was very slow and kept wandering to the side. John made a face again.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked. He obviously wasn't so far gone that he couldn't tell what John was thinking.

"A bit not good." John confirmed. "Hospital"

Sherlock did not say anything, but attempted to roll his eyes. The action obviously sent a bolt of pain through his head, and he complained no further. John grinned at Sherlock's reaction, knowing that he hated hospitals.

"It's the best place for you. Did you pass out? What made you fall?"

"Don't remember. Hit m'head on the table. Floor was cold though. Dropped my mug."

"It's ok, I'll get you a new one." John smiled "You'll be ok."

John pulled his mobile out and dialled 999. "Ambulance please. 221b Baker Street. W1." He glanced over at Sherlock, he seemed to be staying awake now. "Adult male, 34, suspected concussion. Head injury and suspected loss of consciousness. He's very confused. Pupils slow to respond and uneven. Yes, I'm a doctor, the door will be open. Thanks"

Throughout the call Sherlock had refused to let go of John's hand. He was holding on for dear life. John wasn't sure, but the other man looked _scared._ It wasn't something he was used to seeing.

"You'll be ok, Sherlock. Concussion sucks, but it only lasts a few days."

"I can't think" Sherlock whispered "my mind won't work"

"That's normal. Don't worry yourself, I'll look after you. Will you be ok for a minute? I need to go and open the front door, and let Mrs Hudson know what's happening. I don't want her having a heart attack when the paramedics come running in."

"Ok." Sherlock's voice sounded very small and frail. It was unnerving.

John reassured himself that Sherlock would be fine, Sherlock was always fine.


	2. Hospital

I'm Not Now Chapter 2

Sherlock remembered little of the ambulance ride to the hospital. The last foggy memory he had was throwing up on a paramedics shoes when they tried to move him. He turned his head as much as his stiff neck would allow. Lots of white and off-green. Hospital ward then. He could make out other beds through his fuzzy vision. Where was John? And why did the artificial light hurt his eyes so much? Glancing down his own bed Sherlock could see a cannula fitted to his hand. He was attached to a drip but he couldn't make out what it was. Probably saline. Or maybe painkillers.

Where was John? Closing his eyes, he pressed the call bell in his right hand and within a minute a tired looking but friendly nurse was at his side.

"Good to see you're awake, Mr Holmes!" She smiled, pushing a button above his head to turn the call alert off. "How are you feeling?"

"Where's John?"

"Dr Watson? He's not gone far. Hasn't left since you were admitted. He might be getting some coffee in the break room. We tried to persuade him to sleep, but he's having none of that. Want me to get him?"

Sherlock nodded once, ignoring the bolt of pain it sent through his head. His eyes watered.

"Alright, I'll fetch him, but then I'll have to take your vitals. Or he could do it if you like."

He liked this nurse, she was friendly, but didn't push her questions or insist on him making conversation. Sherlock thought about John and what the nurse said about him refusing to leave. He smiled to himself. John was loyal. It was one of his best qualities. From the way she had spoken, it sounded like he'd been in hospital for a while. How long had he been unconscious? Sherlock's thought were interrupted then as John came around the corner and onto his bay. His face lit up immediately into a warm smile, which Sherlock returned.

"Oh god, am I glad to see you awake." John grinned as he pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. "You've been here for two days, mostly asleep or out of it. You weren't making much sense."

"I want to go home!" Was Sherlock's response. Two days? He'd probably lost valuable data from his experiments, not to mention missed his weekly delivery of cold cases from Lestrade.

"How are you feeling?" John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Sore" He admitted. "The light is hurting my eyes."

John stood up and flicked the switch on the wall, and the lights above Sherlock's bed fading into darkness. That was better, Sherlock relaxed into the bed. It wasn't the pitch darkness he wanted, but it would do for now. The friendly nurse had arrived again, with a blood pressure monitor and a tray containing cotton wool and a glucose monitor. Sherlock felt himself pull an involuntary face.

"Would you like me to do it, or Dr Watson?"

"John, please"

John raised his eyebrows at that. Sherlock knew he didn't say please often. But he would rather that John dealt with his medical care than anyone else. John nodded and stood up, taking the tray from the nurse, who wandered to the other side of the bay, and checked another patient. He rolled up his sleeves and went to work. Sherlock watched him as he went into full on doctor mode, checking his blood sugar (low) and blood pressure (high). He also repeated the response tests he'd done in the flat, getting Sherlock to focus on his finger, and then harassing him with a pen light. Sherlock was glad that it was John taking care of him. It made it easier to supress the flash of annoyance he felt at being helpless.

"Do you remember what happened?" John's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Of course I do." Sherlock bristled.

"Off you go then" John sat down in his chair, folding his arms and indicating he was ready to listen. Challenging Sherlock to tell the story. John had called his bluff.

"Fine. I remember searching for your gun Monday afternoon. I couldn't find it" John grinned at that. "Then I was making tea, then I remember lying on the floor. The next thing I remember is vomiting on a paramedic" Sherlock felt ashamed that his mind had let him down. Sherlock Holmes who remembered everything. He turned to look at John, who quickly rearranged his face into a more neutral expression, but not before Sherlock had seen the worried look.

"Well, from what I can tell, you fell at about four on Monday afternoon, I last got a message from you at three thirty. I wasn't home till Tuesday lunchtime. You were out for almost twenty four hours, Sherlock!" John looked very concerned now. Sherlock could see it in the lines around his eyes and the way his mouth was set.

"Can we go home?" Sherlock gave John his best pleading look. It didn't work.

"Not yet Sherlock. You need to be observed for another twenty four hours. Just to be safe. Now try and get some sleep." John started to get up, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed his hand before he knew what he was doing.

"Stay"

John looked over to the nurse, who nodded and smiled, and sat back down.

"It's ok Sherlock I'm here"

Sherlock drifted peacefully into sleep, the image of his smooth, pale fingers in John's rough, tanned hands filling his dreams.


	3. Back to Baker Street

Chapter three

Back to Baker Street

John sat silently next to Sherlock in the taxi. Rain drummed on the windows and softened the noises of the traffic around them. He could see the grimace on Sherlock's face. His brain was probably being overstimulated. Sherlock noticed everything and couldn't shut his mind off. John didn't want to imagine what that was like, especially when recovering from a concussion. Despite his pained expression, John thought, Sherlock a handsome profile. A smooth, pale forehead, knitted together with concentration, or pain? And two blue-green eyes, a little dimmer than usual, but still alive with mystery. John could never decide what colour they were, he only knew that he liked that colour very much indeed. The blue-black bruise on his temple was starting to turn yellow in places. In a couple of weeks it would be gone forever. It looked out of place on the statue like skin of the consulting detective, a hint that all was not as it should be. John was worried. What had caused Sherlock to fall in the first place? He wasn't given to clumsiness, especially in the home he knew like the back of his hand. The thought led John's eyes down to Sherlock's hands. One on each knee, tapping out impatient rhythms. Sherlock had such long fingers, no doubt from a lifetime of piano and violin practise. There was a bruise on the back of Sherlock's left hand, a reminder of John's attempts to wake him. It was John's turn to grimace.

"Baker Street." The driver announced, pulling John from his thoughts. Sherlock swung the door open and stalked towards the front door, leaving John to pay. John clambered out of the taxi, feeling graceless as always in the presence of the younger man. Sherlock cut an imposing figure, especially in his long, blue coat. Collar up, of course. John grinned at the memory of Sherlock giving strict instructions about which clothes John should bring him to wear home. Sherlock was at the front door now, and John couldn't help but notice it took him a couple of tries to get the key into the lock. Another reminder that all was not as it should be. Once up the stairs and in the flat, Sherlock vanished into his room. John wasn't surprised, he'd had a few days of forced socialisation and was probably mentally and physically exhausted.

John busied himself with tidying the flat. He moved stacks of books and papers onto the table, trying not to disrupt them, in case Sherlock had them arranged in a specific order. Next he collected several cold cups of tea from various places, including the one John had made on Tuesday. He tried not to think about it. Once in the kitchen, John threw the tea into the sink and started to run hot water so he could wash the mugs up. Unless Sherlock had been doing his own cleaning up, which was unlikely, it didn't look like he'd eaten while John was away. John sighed. Maybe that was why he'd fallen?

…

Sherlock lay on his bed. He wandered through his mind palace, looking for a particular room, one that he'd hidden from himself. It was taking longer than it should. It was obvious his mind was still recovering from meeting the kitchen table at speed. He gave up looking and came back to the present. His head ached. So did his shoulder. There had been a note left by Lestrade, saying that Sherlock could have his cold cases as soon as John said he was well enough. He hated to admit it, but he probably couldn't get very far at the moment. The drive home had overloaded his mind and now all he wanted to do was sleep. Then a shower. The hospital bathrooms had obviously been designed for people of John's height. The thought of John made him feel… softer? No that wasn't quite right. It was a warmth in his chest and a stupid grin on his face. This needed analysing, but it could wait until he'd slept. Sherlock hated being at the whims of his body.

When Sherlock woke, he had no memory of actually falling asleep. He'd slept well. For about 8 hours, judging by the changed light peeking around the curtains. Sitting himself up, slowly, he decided he felt a little better. He took a deep drink from the glass of water than had appeared on the bedside table. John must have checked on him. The flat was silent around him, and he felt a sudden need for company. Shower first.

…

John realised two things as he woke. One was that he had slept for much longer than he'd meant to, it was now dark outside and there was a chill to the flat. The second was that there was a damp-haired consulting detective standing over him with a content look on his face. There was electricity and something un-nameable in his eyes. John could feel heat radiating from Sherlock and was suddenly very conscious of their knees touching. He couldn't look away.

"I'm sorry, John. Did I wake you?" Sherlock broke the spell between them as he pulled away.

"It's ok, I'd slept enough." John felt as though something had been taken from him. He desperately wanted Sherlock's body heat back. He pushed the thought down. "How are you feeling?"

"Surprisingly not bad." Sherlock grinned. "Better for sleep. Thank you for the water."

John felt himself blushing under the detective's keen gaze. He'd checked on Sherlock three times in total, before falling asleep himself. It had been a rare opportunity to see him peaceful and relaxed. One that John felt privileged to see.

"It's ok, Sherlock. Are you hungry?" John knew he must be. He'd barely eaten at the hospital.

"No."

"Are you sure? It's Saturday night, we can get whatever you like."

"Chips?" Sherlock asked, almost too quickly. "From Taylor's?"

"Chips it is." John was pleased that Sherlock wanted to eat something. Chips were one of the few things he would eat. And Taylor's was his favourite. Not to mention that they never let the two of them pay for anything. And were always willing to send their Saturday lad out to deliver to them.

"I'll order up" John said, picking his phone out of his pocket. "If you could make some tea?"

Sherlock nodded and went into the kitchen, while John ordered the food. He watched as Sherlock moved around the kitchen. Once the call was over, John stared openly at Sherlock, who was in his own world, checking all the experiments that he'd had going before his fall. He moved smoothly, although it was obvious he was favouring his right side. Well it was obvious to John, who liked to think that the study of Sherlock was something he was an expert in. John put his phone away, just realising that he'd left it up to his ear while he was ogling, no _observing_ Sherlock. A smash from the kitchen bought John from his thoughts. Looking up, Sherlock was leaning heavily against the kitchen cabinets, a shattered beaker around his bare feet.

"Sherlock! Are you ok? Let me sweep that up. Stay still." Sherlock nodded tightly, John grabbed the broom and swept the shards into a pile. Luckily he was wearing shoes and could move around the kitchen without fear of cutting himself. Sherlock was rooted to the spot. He looked pale and tired.

"You stay there, I'll get your slippers." John dashed into Sherlock's room and retrieved the barely used slippers from under his bed. Dropping them at Sherlock's feet, he stood and put the younger man's arm around him shoulder. Once Sherlock's feet were no longer bare, John helped him to his chair. Sherlock sat down heavily, he looked exhausted.

"Sorry John. And thank you."

John wasn't sure if he's ever get used to Sherlock being polite.

"It's ok Sherlock. I should have made the tea. You're still disorientated. It'll pass in a few days."

"My hand wouldn't do what I wanted it to."

"Which hand?"

Sherlock held out his left hand slowly. John took it is his and could feel it shaking.

"Sherlock could you put both your arms out in front of you, close your eyes and try and keep them straight in front."

Sherlock did as John asked and John observed Sherlock's left arm drift downwards, while his right stayed perfectly straight.

"Ok, now I want you to hold onto my thumbs and squeeze as hard as you can."

"Can I open my eyes?" Asked Sherlock.

"Oh yeah, sorry!" John laughed. It was nice how Sherlock deferred to his medical judgement.

Sherlock squeezed John's thumbs as hard as he could. John definitely felt it, but again the left hand was weaker than the right.

"Your left is a bit weak Sherlock. But I wouldn't be worried about it. You did hit your head quite hard!"

"Will it pass?" Concern filled Sherlock's eyes and voice as he stared intently at John.

"Yes, of course." John couldn't tear himself away from Sherlock's gaze. Until the doorbell rang, signalling the arrival of food. "Chips are here!" He dashed away and down the stairs before Sherlock could comment.

Before he could do anything monumentally stupid.


	4. A Case

Chapter 4

It had been several weeks since Sherlock's return to Baker Street and normality seemed to have returned. Sherlock had ploughed through a pile of cold cases almost as tall as John. He seemed unstoppable and John was pleased to see him back to his usual, infuriating and enigmatic self. He slept more than usual, almost regularly and John hoped he would continue to do so. It was probably a habit he'd picked up after his injury had exhausted him. He looked well for it. There had been one interesting case a week ago and Sherlock had been on fire. He solved it in record time and had been featured in several papers. John had the clippings stuck to the fridge.

Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, bent over his microscope and muttering to himself. John smiled to himself as he caught fragments of what the man was saying. Something about fibreglass? John looked back to his book, trying to concentrate. It had been becoming harder lately, when Sherlock was around. Which was always. He found himself sneaking furtive looks at the younger man whenever he thought it wasn't obvious. It probably was, Sherlock missed very little. Something about him made him feel alive and like a smitten teenager, simultaneously. The bruise on Sherlock's temple had faded almost imperceptibly and his ivory skin was unblemished once more. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, still wet from the shower, it had quite a striking effect and served to emphasise his eyes, which were mostly emerald green in this light. John couldn't deny that Sherlock was breath-taking. John needed air.

Rising from his armchair, he collected his coat from the sofa and crossed to the door, Sherlock didn't move an inch.

"I'm heading out for a walk" Sherlock still didn't turn.

…

The slam of the front door bought Sherlock back to the present and he raised his head from the microscope ocular. The pain behind his right eye was back. It was pulsing and caustic, like biting into ice cream. He rubbed his eyes, waiting for them to readjust to the dim flat, then he stood. He made his unsteady way to the kitchen cupboard that held one of the several medical kits hidden around the house. He pulled it down and rummaged through until he found some paracetamol. There were a few stronger things in there, but Sherlock needed his mind clear. He washed them down with a glass of water. He swayed for a moment, and supported himself on the side of the sink. John had left, and the flat felt empty without him. Sherlock wouldn't have said out loud, but he missed the doctor's presence it made the flat feel like home, and the man himself was a brilliant conductor of light. Much better conversationalist than the skull.

Once Sherlock had folded himself into his chair, he closed his eyes and began to think. Working through the frequency and intensity of headaches over the last few months. They were definitely getting more frequent and much more debilitating. He hadn't told John, as it would only worry him. What Sherlock needed was a diagnosis. The headaches had been an almost daily occurrence since he fell in the kitchen, and the events leading to that had since re-established themselves in Sherlock's memory. He had been searching for painkillers for a headache when his vision had started to go dark and he had felt like he'd forgotten how to breathe. His legs crumpled underneath him and he fell sideways, his head glancing of the kitchen table as he went. The thought made Sherlock grimace. He'd told John that he'd tripped and hit his head. The truth would only worry him, and Sherlock didn't want to deal with that. The headaches weren't affecting the work yet, which meant that John could remain oblivious for a good while longer.

…

When John got back from his walk, his face was numb from the bitter wind that was blowing. He felt a lot calmer, and now all he wanted was to sit in front of the fire with an enormous cup of tea. Maybe watch some telly and try to keep his mind off Sherlock. Once inside the flat he felt warmer and started to relax. He was over-reacting. Obviously he was just concerned about Sherlock. It made sense, as both a doctor and his flatmate, that he would keep a close eye on him after a head injury. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but judging by the quiet snoring coming from the direction of his bedroom, he was dead to the world. John relished the thought of having the flat to himself. Lowering himself into his armchair with his tea, John flicked the television on. He scrolled through until he found something vaguely interesting (Sherlock's influence was making him hate normal television) and settled back into the cushions.

He'd been sitting an enjoying the silence, barely paying attention to the TV, when the doorbell rang. Sherlock would have been able to tell from the length and pressure of the ring who it was, but John had to settle for answering the door.

Standing on the doorstep was Detective Inspector Lestrade, his grey hair damped down by the drizzle.

"Greg, hi! Want to come in?" John stood back to allow him entry.

"Cheers, John" Lestrade stepped into the hall and shook water droplets from his hair. "Is Sherlock in? I've got a crime scene."

"He's in. Flat out though. Come up and I'll go wake him."

John thought about letting Sherlock sleep as he and Greg made their way up the stairs, but he knew that Sherlock wouldn't forgive him if he missed an interesting crime scene. He left the DI in the kitchen and went to know on Sherlock's door. When there was no response, he opened the door quietly and peeked around. Sherlock was lying diagonally across the bed, on his back with a long thin arm hanging of the edge. He was snoring softly, and looked so peaceful that John was loathe to wake him. He cleared his throat.

"Sherlock" He said, louder than before.

Sherlock started and sat up slowly, shaking the sleep from his mind. He looked bleary eyed and questioning at John.

"Lestrade's here. Got a case."

Sherlock was immediately up and alert, he leapt from the bed and ushered John from the room. The door slammed in his face. John turned from the closed door and made his way back to Lestrade.

"He's awake, shouldn't be long."

John had barely finished speaking when the bedroom door burst open and Sherlock Holmes came out like a hurricane. His eyes were burning and a smile was plastered across his face. He was wearing a dark, fitted suit and a purple silk shirt, open at the neck and exposing his pale throat. John wondered how someone could look so perfect after getting dressed in less than a minute. He even had shoes on.

"What have you got?" Sherlock asked Lestrade with undisguised glee.

"Three bodies at an office in Didcot. None of them have any cause to be there, or with each other, that we can identify. It's a mess Sherlock, will you come?"

"Not in a police car, we'll follow behind. Text me the address."

Lestrade nodded once and left the flat, once the front door was shut, Sherlock ran across the flat to grab his coat. He wasn't even trying to contain his pleasure. It made John indescribably happy to see Sherlock like this. He was in his element, doing what he was meant to do.

"Come on, John!"

…..

Once they'd arrived at the Didcot business park, Sherlock shot off towards the block surrounded by police, leaving John to pay the driver. He was already running theories through his mind, but he didn't pay attention to any of them, not until he'd seen the scene. He often told John that you should not come up with theories until you have all the facts at your disposal, to prevent you from twisting facts to suit theories instead of theories to suit facts. He was glad that Lestrade had turned up at the flat. He felt better after sleeping and was glad of an interesting case to keep him occupied. Sherlock headed straight for Lestrade, standing by the tape barrier, obviously waiting for them. He looked more relaxed than he had at the flat, and his pupils were dilated.

"Enjoy your cigarette, Lestrade?" He asked.

Lestrade didn't look surprised at Sherlock's deduction, he was used to them by now.

"Yes I do, you nosy git. Now get inside and tell me what you can see."

By this time John had caught up and Sherlock ducked under the police tape, then lifted it to allow John entry. This elicited a grateful smile from the doctor, which made Sherlock stomach do a strange flip.

It all went wrong once they got into the office.

There was no sign of forced entry on any of the doorways and all the alarms had been set, none of them triggered. The three bodies had been found by a cleaner that morning. Sherlock scanned the hall leading up to the room with the bodies, nothing seemed out of place. He could already smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, and it made him feel nauseous. They at last arrived at the entrance to the room containing the scene. It was brutal. There was blood on every surface. The furniture was cleared to the sides of the room, computers and desks were dashed with scarlet steaks, already drying. Sherlock finished scanning the surroundings and focused his attentions to the bodies. There were two women and one man, lain side-by-side in a pool of blood. They were dressed in typical office clothing, but it was spotless.

"They've been re-dressed" Sherlock said. His mouth feeling dry and his voice rasping.

"You alright Sherlock? You look a bit peaky?" John concerned voice was at his shoulder almost immediately.

"I'm fine" Sherlock growled, panic rising within him. He couldn't get his breath, and he felt woozy. He swayed and John caught his elbow. The pain in his head was back. Everything smelled too strong, sounded too loud and looked too bright. He felt himself wobble.

"Come on, outside for a minute." John all but dragged him towards the door. Sherlock managed to follow for a few steps, feeling drunk. His limbs wouldn't obey him and it felt like he was moving through treacle. The pounding in his head intensified and quite suddenly, the vision in his left eye went dark. He stood frozen to the spot.

"John." He felt himself whisper.

Then blackness.

…..

"They've been redressed" Sherlock's voice was small and rasping, not his usual baritone announcement. John slipped into doctor mode as soon as he heard it. Sherlock was probably feeling a bit faint from all the rushing around he'd done, and he probably hadn't eaten. John stepped up to the consulting detective.

"You alright, Sherlock? You look a bit peaky."

"I'm fine"

Of course Sherlock wouldn't admit to feeling unwell, but John saw him sway slightly and placed a comforting hand on his arm, steadying him. His face looked tight and drawn, like he was in pain.

"Come on, outside for a minute"

John gently turned the younger man around and led him out of the room. They went a couple of steps, and Sherlock seemed to be moving in a very uncoordinated way. John turned to look at him. He looked terrified.

"John" He whispered. Then fell.

John half-caught, half-guided Sherlock to the floor, gratefully noticing the absence of bloodstains on the carpet. The younger man was a dead weight, and John couldn't stop the fall completely, but he thought that he had avoided injury to the detective. Glancing around the room, he noticed that they'd been left alone by the Yarders.

"Help in here!" He called, loud enough to rouse Greg from his position further down the corridor.

"What the hell happened" The silver-haired man cried as he ran towards the supine Sherlock. His face was slack and he was obviously completely out of it.

"He didn't look well, so I tried to take him outside and he just passed out. Do you have a med kit?"

Greg nodded and spoke briefly into his radio. A young female constable ran in a moment later, carrying the green bag with a white cross. She passed it to Lestrade and beat a hasty retreat.

John moved Sherlock into the recovery position, after checking his pulse, which was weak and uneven. This seemed horribly familiar. Checking Sherlock's breathing with the back of his hand, it was steady, but slow and shallow. John grabbed the med-kit from Lestrade and dug through it until he found a pen torch. Sherlock's right eye responded fine, but his left pupil was blown and unresponsive. John's inside froze with terror.

Lestrade saw John's expression and put a hand on his shoulder.

"What's going on?" He asked gently.

John turned to look at him briefly, before diverting all his attention back to the unconscious man.

"It looks like a stroke." John said. Trying not to let his emotions take over. "But it can't be"

Greg went pale.

"Ambulance will be here in a minute. What can I do?"

John shook his head.

"He needs hospital. There's nothing we can do."

Once the ambulance arrived, Sherlock was lifted onto a stretcher and carried towards the ambulance. All the police officers outside looked very concerned, except two.

"Back on the sauce is he?" called Donovan. Anderson was at her side, a poorly-concealed grin on his face.

Something inside John snapped and he pulled away from the ambulance, but Greg was there to stop him. He turned John back towards Sherlock, with a comforting squeeze on the shoulder as he rounded and stormed towards the pair.

"I want the two of you outside my office tomorrow morning. Now go home. You're suspended without pay."

John didn't see what happened after that, as the ambulance doors were slammed shut, and they took off towards the hospital. He helped the paramedics to take Sherlock vitals and gave them his information. After that, he wasn't much use. All he could do was sit and hold Sherlock's hand, rubbing his thumb in small circles, and pray that his best friend would be ok.

…


	5. Data

Chapter 5

The first thing Sherlock was aware of was the sensation of lying on cold, concrete floor. He wiggled his fingers and toes experimentally. Everything was working. He was fine. A dream then, obviously. He hefted himself into a sitting position before jumping upright, pleased at the lack of pain in his head. He could think like this. He looked about him. He was illuminated by a weak tube light on the ceiling high above which didn't shed light on his surroundings. He stepped forwards, and another light came on above his head with a dull clunk. He took a few more paces, and more light came on.

Through the shadows, he could just about make out piles of junk. Or at least it looked like junk. He walked over to the nearest pile, the light above following as he went. The light's didn't extinguish after he'd passed under them, but rather stayed on, allowing him to see the path back to where he had started. Something in the pile caught his attention. It was a corner of thick material poking out from underneath what looked like a life-size moose head. It looked familiar. Sherlock reached out and caught the fabric, and he was immediately reminded of home. It was a jumper. One of John's jumpers. He pulled the corner and the whole thing came out with a whump. It was dusty and smelled of mothballs. Sherlock frowned. Nothing related to John in his mind should be dusty or treated carelessly. He filed anything and everything to do with the army doctor, including his jumpers, which were arranged by colour and texture. Orderly. Neat. A cold feeling passed through him. He dropped the jumper and began to run, the light's turning on above him.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

He could make out more piles, john's armchair, toppled and upside down. His chemistry equipment broken and scattered. Sherlock slowed and feel to his knees as he realised where he was, what he was looking at.

This was his memory palace. Emptied out into a warehouse. A pure data dump. Everything he had filed away so carefully, categorised and rationalised had been thrown out into this chaos. Sherlock began to sob, the pain starting to creep in at the edges of his awareness. What had happened to him? Suddenly, the lights came on entirely, all at once. The warehouse seemed to stretch for miles. Could he fix this?

He stood up and strained his eyes, trying to make out landmarks in the wasteland of his mind palace. Brushing the tears from his face, he stated to walk. All the while, the pain was creeping inside his head. He walked for what felt like aeons. He walked and walked. He took in fragments of past crime scenes, hints of people from his past, a dog's collar snagged on an upturned table leg. He walked on.

"_Sherlock_"

He spun on his heel, looking about him for the source of the sound. Nothing. Had he imagined it? There was no sign of anyone else, nothing moved and everything as still and silent as it had been when he woke. Sherlock continued to walk, until he heard the whisper again.

"_Please, Sherlock."_

It was John's voice, he would recognise it anywhere, and it appeared to be coming from behind a massive pile of books ahead. Sherlock broke into a run, heading towards the source of the sound. As he came around the other side of the book mountain, he heard it again.

"_Please Sherlock, just wake up. For me."_

"John!" Sherlock shouted, loud as he could muster. He winced as the effort caused pain to lance through his head. "I'm here!"

Standing alone in a pool of light was a door, within a door frame. It was a boring, slightly battered, black wooden door. Much like the one at Baker Street. Sherlock knew instantly that it was the source of John's voice. He knew he had to go through it.

"I'm coming John." He murmured. He crossed the distance to the door quickly, and wrapped his hand around the brass door knob. Steeling himself, he turned it and pushed his shoulder against the wood. The door began to open slowly, it was heavy and moved just a fraction at first. Putting a bit more effort in, Sherlock got the door wide enough to throw himself through, before it slammed shit after him. Leaving him in darkness again. But it was a different kind of darkness.

"Can you hear me Sherlock?"

John was here, good. Sherlock cracked an eye open, feeling exhausted even at the simple action. John was standing over him, concern written in every line on his face, until he saw Sherlock looking up at him in one – eyed confusion. Then the concern evaporated almost entirely and was replaced with the most dazzling smile Sherlock had ever seen. That smile was safety, it was home. Sherlock tried to smile back, then slept.


End file.
